


We are such stuff as dreams are made on

by CollingwoodGirl



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Dream Sequence, Dreams, F/M, Murder and Mozzarella, S3 E3 drabble, Shapeshifting, wanting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 22:20:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4036615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollingwoodGirl/pseuds/CollingwoodGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rising over him, she strokes his jaw softly, soothing his hesitation.  Her friendship had been wholly unexpected, a lifeline when the waters around him grew rough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We are such stuff as dreams are made on

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something that was taking up headspace after watching Season 3 Episode 3 and had to be written before I watched Episode 4.

_It is a lingering dream. One that tempts him in the murky somnolence of early morning. Usually after he had briefly awakened, parched with thirst... and perhaps something else._

Rising over him, she strokes his jaw softly, soothing his hesitation. Her friendship had been wholly unexpected, a lifeline when the waters around him grew rough. Following her example, her unusual family took him in, welcomed him, when he had none of his own. He found himself seeking refuge there when he didn't want to be alone with his thoughts and then, simply, to enjoy her company - however briefly she deigned to bestow it. Her touch is warm... reassuring... as it always had been. Except now, he can perceive the depths of her devotion. Her desire.

His eyes follow the path of her hand as it blazes slowly past the lapels of his three-piece, down his chest to the junction of their hips, where she sits astride him.

_The sheets rustle stiffly as his weight shifts in sleep, his hand unconsciously coming to rest on his belly, fingertips edging underneath the hem of his night shirt._

Her elegant fingers brush up the length of her torso to grip the collar of the long, red overcoat she wears and Jack feels the anticipation coil in the pit of his stomach.

Breathlessly he watches as she slowly pushes it from her shoulders, revealing herself completely to him, and the garment transforms into a sea of feathers as it hits the mattress.

Burnished gold, her skin glows like firelight. And perhaps he fears it would burn, because he makes no move to touch her.

She regards him intently as his face floods with unspoken thoughts. Her own expression is enigmatic - betraying nothing. Stretching upwards, she extracts the tortoise-shell comb from her crown, sending waves of dark hair tumbling down her back.

The gesture is far from artless but no less potent in its rendering. She is a Renaissance bronze come to life, his very own Venus.

His eyes are swept along her cascading figure. From her elegant neck to softly sloped shoulders, down the curves of her warm arms and back up her rounded belly, to full breasts tipped with nipples the shade of ripening berries.

Her gaze scorches his face as she watches him drink her in. "Do you like what you see, Gianni?" she asks softly.

He opens his mouth to answer but, whether extinguished by the melody of her voice or his usual captive state in dreams, Jack's voice fails him. Instead he nods impotently, his eyes wide and glistening with a longing he neither understands nor allows himself to fully accept.

She smiles shyly at him and, for the briefest moment, Concetta's pale lips twist into a familiar crimson smirk.

"Bene," she breathes, her relief evident at last and, with it, the illusion dissipates as quickly as it had appeared.

Taking his hand in hers, she traces it up the length of her thigh and he marvels at how easily she gives way. The softness of her flesh offering only comfort - no resistance. She is exotic to him, different than anything he has ever known.

"Perché questo ti appartiene," she whispers and he feels his cheeks flush.

He has never wished to possess anyone and yet, her words flood his body with a shameful desire. He can't help but push himself up to embrace her - if only to know, for once, what it feels like to be wanted so desperately by another.

He presses a kiss to her sternum and her gasp echos sharply in his ears. Trembling fingers weave into his waves, begging him closer. The lengths of her hair tickle against his hands as she arches her body toward him.

But she is slighter than he had imagined. Now that she is wrapped in his arms, her ribcage feels narrow and her hands are suddenly far less gentle, hauling him with force to her breast. Shutting his eyes tight against the feeling of déjà vu bubbling up in his gut, he takes her into his mouth.

He expects the silky slip of her flesh. What he receives is the harsh bite of lace against his lips and tongue. But the sudden appearance of the layers don't douse his need in the least; the sensation which had burned into itself his flesh memory only serves to inflame. He grasps her tighter and works his mouth over the fabric of her dress, dragging his teeth over the taut nipple he finds within... until she cries out.

"Jack!"

His arms fall away at the sound of her voice and opens his eyes to find hers, burning bright blue with unresolved lust. "Jack! Don't stop! Jack?… Jack?"

_In the solitude of his bedroom, Jack's body jolts, but he does not wake._

"Gianni? Cosa c'è?" Her almond shaped eyes brim with apprehension as she caresses the lines on his brow. "Why do you stop? Have I...?"

"Nothing is wrong," he whispers. She doesn't deserve to be made to feel this way. He halts her worrying hand, pressing his lips to her fingertips. "You're everything a man could want." But even he can hear the emptiness in his voice and pulls her close in a vain attempt to rekindle a flame.

"Any man, Gianni," she replies bitterly, "Except for you." The hurt in her voice plucks at his conscience.

He rests his head in the crook of her neck and breathes deeply, the heady scent of French perfume infiltrating his senses, casting its spell. "That's not true," he lies, even as her bronzed shoulder pales to ivory in front of his very eyes.

She sighs in delight as he brushes his lips across it and wraps her legs around him.

His heart stutters in his chest and he looks up into her flushed face, where her fringe sticks lightly to her forehead. "I want you," he concedes in a murmur. 

"Again!" she demands.

Even in victory, she makes him bleed. When he speaks again, his voice is rough and raw with the undeniable truth. "I... Want... You."

Her lips curl in satisfaction. She wrests his tie free and suddenly, he is as bare as she. The friction of their skin is more exquisite than he has ever imagined.

_A whimper of breath escapes Jack's lips into the cold, still air as he reaches for his discarded pillow._

She kisses him gently and his lips part for her, allowing her tongue to surge against his. He moans into her mouth and pins her to him with hands fisted in her bobbed hair. He kisses her now as he has always longed to kiss her. Deep, languid kisses, filled with dark promises. And soon, she is the one keening with desire.

They tumble backwards onto the bed and the sense of falling shocks Jack from his slumber.

_He cannot believe it was only a dream. His arms are still warm with the weight of her. He swears he can still taste her mouth, smell her perfume. Feel his heart beat to the staccato of her name._

_He knows now that there can be no other._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Shakespeare's, _The Tempest._
> 
> Perché questo ti appartiene. = Because it belongs to you.
> 
> Cosa c'è? = What's wrong?
> 
> Update: It just dawned on me that it might not be obvious that when Concetta's bare flesh turns to lace in Jack's mouth, he is reliving his moment with Phryne on Madame Lyon's chaise in "Murder Most Scandalous." But, that was my intention.


End file.
